


Common Lies

by dentigerous



Category: Marvel 616, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 1980s, Assassins & Hitmen, F/M, Los Angeles, Spies & Secret Agents, hard choices
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-02
Updated: 2017-01-02
Packaged: 2018-09-14 08:26:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9170719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dentigerous/pseuds/dentigerous
Summary: “Are you recording me, Jacob?”“Depends on whether or not you’re flirting with me.”(how an abduction goes according to plan)





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mikkey_bones](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mikkey_bones/gifts).



Natasha was lying on a cold container crate, propped up on her elbows, watching the north end of the Port of Los Angeles. It was fall, at least, and still warm at night. Just about a hundred meters away a large car pulled up and three armed security men exited the vehicle, followed by an Iraq man in an impeccably pressed American suit.

“Have you identified the target, Alaina?”

“Yes.”

Alaina spoke softly, but the small microphone attached under her jawline transmitted her words clearly. She heard a short whirring noise as the man on the other end of the line shifted in his seat. He was in the getaway vehicle on the other end of the port, waiting for her.

“Engage.”

The woman snorted; it came across the transmission as something low and gravelly. She kept her eyes firmly on the four men, trying to read their lips and finding it nearly impossible.

“If I needed orders like that, I wouldn't be here.”

It was true. In between nineteen eighty and eighty-five personal investment in private security firms jumped from almost nothing to a multi-million dollar sum. Los Angeles was crawling with thugs high on cocaine and ready to make a scene. Two years ago a Red Room operative would never have been considered for an assignment like this.

“It’s procedure.”

“Are you recording me, Jacob?”

“Depends on whether or not you’re flirting with me.”

Natasha didn’t respond, sliding backward along the crate and then rolling off, landing catlike on the cement. She was far enough away and the ground was dense enough that any sound she made would be covered by the waves.

Her target was the Iraqi, Aram Naji al-Hamid. He was an arms importer currently currying favor with the American Mafia. This was a problem for the Soviet government, currently supplying arms to Iraq to outfit the soldiers fighting in the Iraq-Iran conflict. If the Italians in any capacity started to profit from a new partnership, there could be backlash across the Arabian Peninsula, and the Muslims in the south might rally to a new supporter.

It was intensely political and extremely unfavorable. The arms dealer was too important to simply replace; he had contacts in Iraq that were irreplaceable, he knew the culture and the customs in a way that the Soviets could never really hope to replicate, and, possibly most important, he made them money. They needed to extract al-Hamid as soon as possible.

Preservation and retrieval.

Her handler spoke again, “Have you determined his motivations?”

“Negative.” There was nobody else on the port, he wasn’t holding a radio. Why al-Hamid had ventured out of his secure compound was another large unknown.

Al-Hamid had remained with his head underground, meeting with the Milano brothers five times over the past two weeks. The two USSR operatives had to tread delicately. The Milanos controlled the port, and they still needed the mafia to work with them. They just couldn’t have the American Mafia and the Middle East working together.

This was the first time they had gotten word he was going out in public. The fact that Natasha had identified him at all made the night more crucial than ever. Natasha and the soldier had been in Los Angeles for a month, and the KGB was getting anxious to have the asset returned.

Natasha was not so eager. After the incident on the East Coast five years ago missions with the soldier (her soldier) had become more and more rare. She couldn’t risk losing him again.

Now was not the time for sentiment. Natasha steadied herself, ignoring the growing pit in her stomach as she primed the charges in her bracelets.

She made her way around the large containers, waited until she heard the rumble of an engine before she jumped a chain-link fence, dropping into a crouch. Slowly, she walked behind the crates, pressing her shoulders against the cool metal. She could hear Jacob’s breathing in her ear, the ocean, men’s low voices, the rumble of an engine that was not industrial, not a car, but belonged to some small craft.

Her heart rate spiked slightly; was al-Hamid making a getaway? Running north to San Diego to leave the country? This was supposed to be something quiet and unassuming, a man disappearing. She couldn’t see it but she heard the churning of water under a powerboat’s engine as it docked.

Natasha looked around the container, seeing al-Hamid approaching the pier, watching as two of his bodyguards helped secure the small ship. The third was walking around, patrolling the area. The craft gliding into the port was a small fishing ship, absolutely out of place in the large dock.

“He’s meeting a boat,” she whispered, taking out her baton. “Three bodyguards active.”

“And on the boat?”

“Unknown.”

It was a rare occurrence for both Natasha and the soldier to encounter an unknown variable.

“Proceed, prioritize al-Hamid’s removal. Dispose of the rest.”

“Orders confirmed,” Natasha replied, checking her weapons on her hips. The response was almost automatic, but it came with a sharp twinge. More deaths. More blood.

Footsteps, and then Natasha launched at the bodyguard who was patrolling. She sprung out, pressing the baton across his windpipe, dragging him back into the alley. She knocked him out quickly, two sharp jolts of electricity shooting through his temples. Quiet, efficient. Natasha checked her weapon, but knew that would avoid using her gun until she had no other choice.

She looked around the corner again, in time to see indistinct figures disembarking from the ship. Al-Hamid embraced one, and with a sense of dread, Natasha realized that it must be his wife and children. They were presumed dead after they were arrested by the Iraqi government, but someone lied.

Of course, she thought, steeling herself. Everyone lies.

Natasha blinked hard, pulling back behind the crate and closing her eyes. She pressed her shoulder blades against the cold metal, taking deep breaths. She was getting too old to kill children.

“Alaina.”

She didn’t respond to the soldier’s voice in her ear. If she imagined hard (not so hard, wasn’t all her life a lie?) she could feel his breath against her neck.

“Alaina, report.”

“I’m working, Jacob,” she said, turning again to watch the exchange. Al-Hamid held a woman’s hand, bounced a child on his hip. Everyone lies.

One of the bodyguards ushered the family into the back of the car, the other looked around, presumably for the man currently lying at an uncomfortable angle at the Soviet’s feet. Natasha pulled herself against the crate, closing her eyes. She had already taken out one of the bodyguards. It had been nothing, without thought, instinct, and now this family would pay the price for it. If she had just waited they could have been spared, released, set free.

She drew her weapon, tucking the baton away, and without hesitating again, stepped out from behind the crate. Without thinking (lies) she shot out the back wheels of the car. Screams from inside the vehicle. The two bodyguards turned towards her, one went down with a shot through his head, the other took two bullets (hip, chest) before slumping against the front of the vehicle.

There was breathing in her ear, screams from the car, waves along the shore. Natasha hardened herself as she ran towards the car.

“I’m coming to you, Alaina.”

She saw a shadow move inside the car and she rolled into a crouch just as bullets exploded from the back seat. She had her back pressed against the trunk of the car as al-Hamid scrambled out of the front passenger’s seat, turning to face the back, still firing. The gunfire kept her crouched behind the car’s trunk as he pushed the bodyguard out of the care and climbed into the driver’s seat.

Natasha used those few seconds to reload her clip. She stood and turned, shooting through the back window and then through the roof of the vehicle. More screams, glass shattered into the hatch of the vehicle, none coming down on her.

“ _Alnnazul_!”

Natasha ducked down again as bullets passed above her. The children were crying, the mother was whispering, reassuring them, (“ _La bas, hasanana. Kunn hadi, hasanana._ ”) and then the click of a trigger trying to unload an empty gun.

She moved quickly, jumped around the car, pulled the front door open further and dragged al-Hamid completely out of the driver’s seat. As he fought her she twisted her wrist, sending a shock through his system. She pulled him out of the vehicle and looked into the backseat

Wife, two daughters, young son. Dispose was too clinical a word for times like this. She set her jaw.

“Stay down.”

She slammed the door on them, pulled al-Hamid over her shoulders and carried him across the lot. Helicopter blades echoed in her earpiece and upwards, and she had to hide the pain as she looked up, watching the chopper land in the tight docking area.

Wasting no time, Natasha put al-Hamid into the back and locked him securely into the seat. She would handcuff him and check for weapons later.

“Too much noise,” she snapped, crawling into the front seat as the soldier prepared to lift off. She pulled her earpiece out, shaking her head. “We need to go.” It was only half-true, these docks were abandoned, and if some Milano’s men popped off a few shots people were much more likely to forget.

The soldier frowned but didn’t argue, turning the controls of the helicopter and slowly lifting off.

There was a scream from the car, piercing enough to be heard even over the chopper’s blades. Natasha looked down as a young girl with dark hair and bright eyes ran out of the vehicle, reaching for the helicopter.

The soldier turned to Natasha, frowning deeply, his mouth pressed tightly.

“Go.” Natasha reached over, pressed her hand to his face. She didn’t look down, didn’t turn away from her handler. She slid her hand behind his neck, leaning in. The lines around his lips softened, he blinked steadily and looked almost confused.

It had been a month since his last programming. It had been a month since anyone had given him a new name. He felt warm under her hand, he felt alive.

“James,” she said, barely raising her voice. It was a whisper, pleading, intent. “Go.”

They heard one last cry of ‘Baba’ as the helicopter continued to rise, peeling away from the port.

The two assassins didn’t speak as they flew south. It was uneventful, and Natasha even dozed off, her head nodding, falling to her chest for a few seconds. These were the times that the soldier would remember later, her face calm, exhausted, asleep.

They landed about two hours later, south of the border. The soldier made a quick mission report as Natasha woke al-Hamid, forcing him onto a boat eerily similar to the ship his family had returned on. After turning al-Hamid over to the waiting USSR officials the two of them waited a while longer for their own transport back to Siberia.

Natasha held his hand when they were alone, and he said nothing about the family. It was the only comfort they could offer each other, and doubts started to creep in between their silences, hearts shaking, steadiness in their hands.


End file.
